Buster had always been proud of being born and raised in a barn. He felt that, along with a wholesome upbringing and an appreciation for hearty outdoor activity, the experience had given him the flexibility and resilience to cope with unusual situations and unexpected change. Like the time he fell asleep on the back of his favourite sheep and woke up, still on Prunella, but in the middle of a nausea-inducing trailer ride to a new farm.
Or the time he woke up from a nap and found that the humans had brought home another cat. In kittenhood, Buster had learned to at least understand, if not speak 7 different animal languages (the low tonals of Bovish are almost impossible for a cat to replicate), but had never really learned the swear words in any of them. (It's a little known fact that domestic poultry curse almost constantly, but their language's grammar and syntax are difficult even for native speakers.). Over the next couple of days, Buster learned 27 new words, none typically used in polite company, from the new cat.
Anyway, today had started out normally with a bit of breakfast (he hadn't felt much like eating in the past few days), followed by two (!!) saucers of milk from the female human. He figured that he must have taken a nap at some point, because now he was......here.
And here was wonderful. Sunny and warm, with a mild breeze. He began to run through the field of grass he found himself in, pausing to leap at the occasional butterfly or listen to bird chatter. He stopped and rested for a bit, enjoying the sun's warmth on his fur; he hadn't felt strong enough to run in a long time, and wasn't quite back in shape yet.
Buster couldn't explain how or why, but somehow he knew that he eventually needed to reach a particular cottage and garden. He rose, stretched thoroughly and continued on his way, occasionally veering off-course to track a flicker of motion through the grass. Soon, he reached what he knew was his destination - there was the cottage, with its rose garden in full bloom. If he squinted, he could just make out the human, building something in the vegetable patch.
Then he saw her. The plump little tortoiseshell, basking in a sunny spot just outside of the shade of a peach tree. "I wonder if she still dreams about creme brulee?", Buster giggled to himself. He knew what he had to do next. Crouching low in the grass, he approached as stealthily as he could. When he reached the dozing cat, he leaned in, stuck his nose firmly in the nape of her neck, and sniffed as hard has he could.
As expected, the other cat immediately leaped to her feet, shrieking, "Eeeeeewwwww!" at the top of her lungs. She spun to face Buster, left paw cocked back. When she saw him, her round eyes got even rounder. "YOU!! I thought I was done dealing with you! I'll get you, you $#%@&!"
Buster turned and sprinted for the cottage, shouting, "I missed you too, Paris!" over his shoulder. He continued to run and look back, making sure that he was ahead of Paris (for a small cat, she had a powerful punch), but not so far ahead that she would give up the chase.
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2013 has been a good year in many ways; unfortunately, it's also the year in which we started out with two cats and ended up with none.
Buster and Paris were 17.5 and 16, respectively, when they passed on (that's 86 and 80 in cat years). They had long, adventure-filled lives, and in turn, filled our lives with adventure. They were both, in their own ways, unique personalities; I don't think there will ever be others like them.
They were loved beyond measure and are sorely missed.
